I just had to endure it. I was dying already. I was so close. Eventually the agony would end. There was no choice and no escape until it did.
He leaned close to me, and I felt his breath in my ear. “If you want, you can whisper it to me. Nobody will ever know.”
My lips were so dry. They had stuck together, but despite the agony, I made them move.
“I will kill you,” I said into his ear. “I will make you pay for everything you’ve done.”
He straightened. “No. You never will. And now I need to get on with it. We don’t have much time left.”
He was right. He made thirty minutes into thirty days. I cried, and I screamed, and I called for my mom, but I never told him anything he wanted to know. I was blind by the time I drew my last breath, but I heard him cursing as I died.
Everything hurt. The pain was like air, in my body, in my blood, in every cell.
I opened my eyes.
The wooden ceiling above me was grimy. Familiar clusters of lanterns hung from it, no longer lit. I was still on the table. He’d left my corpse there.
Slowly, oh so slowly, I turned my head and saw him. He sat at a table, with his back to me. A roasted chicken with a drumstick missing rested on a big plate next to him. He’d tired himself out and gotten hungry.
Just one shot. There would be no do-overs.
I tried to move my right hand. I had fingers again. I squeezed them into a fist and raised my arm, half expecting him to whip around and stab me.
He kept eating.
My hand was whole, and he hadn’t resecured it. Why would he? I was dead.
I reached for the thing binding my neck. A leather strap.
He reached for the pitcher on his left and I froze.
The Butcher refilled his cup and set the pitcher down.
I traced the strap with my new fingers. It was secured by a metal nail threaded through it. I clamped my fingers around the nail and pulled up. It came free with shocking ease, and I froze again, holding my breath.
He kept chewing.
I pulled the belt to the side and sat up. The same setup held my left wrist. I pried the nail free and slipped off the table.
The pain nearly took me to the floor. My clothes hung on me in tattered bloody shreds. I wasn’t me. I was a furious wounded animal, and I moved like one, silent, sure, and careful.
The workbench with his tools was between me and the Butcher. Gingerly, I reached out and picked up the mace he’d used to shatter my kneecaps. It felt solid and real in my hand, and its head was heavy.
I took a step toward the Butcher.
He picked up a knife.
Another step.
He sank the knife into the chicken and carved a thigh off.
Another step.
He put the meat on his plate.
Another step.
He set the knife down.
